by Rebecca Tope
Angie drooped. ‘I just know it’s going to be awful. I hope they’ll give us somewhere to sit. My legs are all wobbly.’
‘I prescribe a gentle walk down the hill, along with the fresh air. And of course there’ll be somewhere to sit. It’s not a garden party.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Even if it is, there’ll be seats.’
‘It’s at least a mile from here,’ she complained.
‘Downhill.’
‘What about coming back?’
‘We can catch the bus. Somebody might drive us. We can get nicely tipsy and leave that in the lap of the gods.’
‘You’ve got an answer for everything,’ she accused him.
They washed up the few breakfast plates, and Russell went outside with his dog for half an hour. Only five years earlier, the animal would have been dashing himself against the trees at the bottom of the garden in an effort to catch a grey squirrel. It had been an ideal way of exercising, with Russell urging him on. Now the squirrels had almost gone, exterminated by purists who insisted the red version should be given its rightful land back. Russell had regularly remarked on the politics of wildlife conservation, and how it seemed to involve as much destruction as it did protection. ‘I like grey squirrels,’ he would say, until such a statement became too dangerous to utter aloud.
Back indoors, he found Angie on the sofa, doing nothing.
‘I’m thinking,’ she defended. ‘I still don’t understand what this lunch thing is all about.’
‘I was thinking as well. I suppose it’s just that they all feel under a cloud, with the murder investigation going on all around them. So they want to show solidarity with us, and make us see what fine fellows they all are.’
‘Hm.’
‘They might even be feeling sorry for us, being landed with a murder victim and having all the bookings cancelled. Perhaps they’ve got our daughter’s interests at heart and they want to help with finding a place in Patterdale. After all, these people are our friends. Especially Stuart. He’s got quite a thing for you, remember.’
Angie smiled. ‘I am quite fond of Stuart, actually. I do hope he doesn’t turn out to be a murderer. Like you with Candy. But that leaves Tristan and he’s far too bombastic to kill anybody. He’d be much too worried about being caught and losing his reputation.’
‘That’s true of everybody, really. The prospect of being arrested for murder is more than enough to stop us all from committing the act.’
‘With a few notable exceptions,’ said Angie. ‘I’m referring to the various killers Persimmon has run into since she’s come to live up here.’
‘They all expected to get away with it.’
‘Well, I just hope nothing awful happens during lunch. I can’t cope with anything else. If it were up to me, I’d insist we only talk about roses and babies. And Patterdale, if we stick to the chances of Persimmon and Christopher finding somewhere to live there.’ She sighed. ‘But it won’t be up to me, will it?’
‘It’s hard to imagine them staying off the subject of Childers, I must admit. But we can try, if that’s what you want. Or at least keep things vague. We can say the police have asked us not to discuss details. A bit of a fib, but it will serve the purpose. That’s always a useful line to take with anyone who gets too inquisitive.’ He grinned and rubbed his hands together. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m rather looking forward to it. It’ll make a very nice change.’
‘It feels like an awful effort, to be honest. If it gets too much for me, I’ll pretend to be having a panic attack, shall I? Nobody’s going to be very surprised by that.’
He gave her a sceptical look. ‘Since when has anything been too much for you?’
‘Since about two o’clock this morning, if you remember. You practically had to talk me down from the ceiling.’
‘Oh pooh!’ he scoffed. ‘That was all just a bad dream. Put it out of your mind. That’s what I’m going to do.’
‘Hm,’ was all Angie said to that.
Only then did Russell catch up with the conversation between Angie and Simmy. ‘Are we really not providing lunch for the young people tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘What? Oh – no, we’re definitely going to them. She’s going to cook a piece of pork, by all accounts. Has that ever happened before?’
‘Once or twice when she was married to Tony. And she did that little housewarming do, when she first moved up here. But I don’t remember an actual Sunday lunch with a roast. I’m looking forward to it already.’
‘And she didn’t like the house.’
‘Ah. That’s a shame. What’s wrong with it?’
‘Dark, apparently, and not enough garden. She’s thinking of the child, of course. I wonder whether they’ll manage more than one,’ Angie mused, with a faraway look. ‘Hard to imagine after all this time.’
‘Not for me. I can see the whole thing. You hear of women having their first at forty and ending up with three. If that happens—’
‘Stop it. I suppose you think we’ll be doing the school run and helping with homework when we’re eighty.’
‘I really can’t see why not,’ said Russell stubbornly. They both knew he was envisaging a belated revenge on his wife for vetoing any further babies after Simmy. If he’d had his way, there’d have been five, to match the Henderson family. Russell had always envied the Hendersons.
‘She went to see the spot where that holiday park might be – as far as she could work out the exact location. There’s a fairly level field close to the football pitch that looks ripe for development, given a hefty dose of imagination. We could mention that to Tristan over lunch.’
‘Indeed,’ said Russell, wondering whether he really had the stamina for a lot of conversation and social interaction, not just today, but tomorrow as well.
Chapter Nineteen
In sharp contrast to her parents, Simmy woke at dawn, with a stiff neck from the awkward position she’d been forced into to accommodate Christopher in her inadequate bed. Many more months of this, and the bulk of the unborn baby would ensure that one of them would have to decamp to the spare room. In point of fact, the bed had never been big enough to provide a good night’s sleep for two people, however intimately entwined they might be.
‘Urghh,’ she said. ‘We can’t go on like this.’
Christopher was still asleep and made no response. She poked him to rectify this imbalance. He made a noise like a Herdwick sheep shaking its wet fleece, a sort of flurrying flight into wakefulness from some distant realm. Simmy felt remorseful. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise you were so deeply asleep.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing, really. I’ve got a stiff neck. It’s morning.’
‘I don’t believe you. It looks dark to me.’
‘It’s half past seven. I want a mug of tea. And we have to plan the day. I can’t justify asking Bonnie and Tanya to run the shop if I’m just going to slob about doing nothing.’
‘You’ve got a very outdated work ethic,’ he grumbled. ‘And surely the girls aren’t going to be at the shop for ages yet. What – half past nine? You needn’t start worrying about them until then.’
‘Stop being so logical. There’s a whole lot we’ve got to do.’ She rubbed his bare shoulder affectionately. ‘Am I being awful? I’m hungry, for one thing, and I just feel we ought to get up and start doing some jobs.’
‘Only a bit awful. You might be right about the jobs, although I can’t imagine what they are. As far as I can see, we’ve got an entire weekend free of obligations. We could even drop in on one of my sisters this afternoon. And tomorrow we could go to a car boot sale. The season’s only got a week or two left. I never get to go to as many as I’d like.’
‘That sounds fine,’ said Simmy, unable to come up with any objections, apart from a vague reluctance to follow either of these suggestions. Whatever she and Christopher decided to do was going to feel self-indulgent and irrelevant to the central issue. An is
sue that her fiancé seemed intent on ignoring. He had made it very clear that he was not going to discuss murder, nor share in the brainstorming and hypothesising that Simmy, Bonnie and Ben had become so accustomed to. This time there was no Ben; instead Russell and Angie Straw were directly affected, and that inevitably meant that Simmy was too. DI Moxon evidently thought the same. ‘Although we’ll both have to spend some time with my parents tomorrow. They’re beginning to think you’re avoiding them.’
‘Hardly. When have I had a chance to see them? Everything’s always so hectic.’
This did not strike Simmy as an entirely accurate statement. Once the fortnightly Saturday auction was over, Christopher usually had to make an appearance on the Sunday, with people coming to collect large purchases and argue over mislaid items. Then he would meet up with Simmy later in the day. None of this justified the word hectic to Simmy’s mind. The intervening weekends, like this one, were admittedly busier, with shopping and eating and walking and house-hunting to be fitted in. But even they were hardly hectic.
‘I’ll phone them in a bit. Without any guests, they might not be up yet. I’m not sure how we left it last night – I was in rather a rush.’
It was half past eight before Christopher joined her for a modest breakfast. Her early morning hunger had been partly assuaged by some toast, but now she had some more, with orange juice and yoghurt for good measure. The growing baby seemed to be stealing more than its share of the calories she consumed, and various cravings were assailing her. Sausage rolls, avocados and anything containing large chunks of meat were her particular favourites. There was a growing shopping list awaiting execution. ‘First job is a shopping trip,’ she announced. ‘There’s hardly any food in the house after last night. I’m surprised I didn’t get indigestion, eating so much so late. I was ravenous.’
‘Where do people go to shop from Patterdale, I wonder?’ he said. ‘It’s a long way from anywhere with a supermarket.’
‘They probably do it online. I keep meaning to set that up here, actually. It’s even quite a trek from Troutbeck.’
‘We could do it now. You can have all the sausage rolls you can eat, without having to carry them into the house. And it’s always bedlam in the supermarket at weekends.’
She could think of no reason to resist and was content to let him loose on her computer, only providing occasional suggestions as he activated the delivery service. It turned out they could not be provided with a delivery that day, which left the original plan of doing their own shopping the only option. This, Simmy reminded herself, was how being a couple was meant to go. Sharing, bickering, dreaming and wasting time in deciding the next course of action. Being quiet together sometimes, before girding up to go out into the world side by side. It was all soothingly normal. Why then did she still feel that they were being inefficient? More than that – they were guilty of selfishness and neglect of what really mattered. Somewhere there was a murderer who very probably felt he or she had got away with the ultimate crime. Unless Moxon had been very economical with what he told her, it seemed that the police were at a loss. There were too many variables, too many unknowns. Where, when, how, why – the questions were legion. The ‘Why?’ one stood out as the most important. Why on earth should poor Grant Childers, meek-mannered Midlands bachelor who loved the Lake District, find himself innocently consuming poison on an ordinary Sunday morning in Windermere? Hadn’t he asked the very same question himself, seconds before he died? Why was he dead? What possible reason could there be?
Finally, it was time to call Beck View. Russell answered, but before they’d managed to say much, he was summoned to the landline. Simmy was handed over to her mother, who admitted she had only just got out of bed. The Sunday pork roast occupied much of the conversation, with the unusual decision to eat in the Troutbeck cottage causing some amusement on both sides. ‘Don’t forget the apple sauce,’ said Angie. ‘I’ll bring you some bacon and sausages, to compensate.’
It occurred to Simmy that she had not purchased an actual joint of meat in a shop since the early years of her marriage to Tony. Christmas turkey didn’t count, and there had been a one-off arrangement with a group of Troutbeck residents, whereby a whole sheep had been shared. Its owner specialised in old-fashioned mutton, persuading his neighbours to take various cuts at discount prices. Simmy had ended up with a shoulder, which she had undercooked and found remarkably tough. The enterprise had faded away before the procedure could be repeated.
The day was decidedly autumnal. While the trees still retained their leaves, the colours were changing daily, and there was a bite in the air. Simmy’s thin jeans were not adequate for the temperature outside and she went upstairs to find a thicker pair, forgetting that her new shape would require some adaptation of her usual wardrobe. ‘I can’t find any trousers to fit me,’ she wailed, after frantically rooting through the drawers. ‘Even the stretchy ones are too tight.’
Christopher came for a look. ‘Better go and buy some more, then,’ he said. ‘Unless you want to borrow something from Hannah or Lynn. They might still have a few maternity things.’
The idea was not appealing. Her baby would have numerous cousins on its father’s side, and that was a good thing. There would be toys and equipment to spare. But clothes were different. ‘Surely they’ll have thrown everything out by now? Lynn’s youngest is four, and it doesn’t look as if she’s planning any more. Hannah’s are a lot older.’
‘Well, it was just a thought. They’re really excited about this new baby, you know. They love being aunties.’
‘They’ve had plenty of practice. I’d have thought one more would seem fairly mundane.’
‘You don’t understand about families,’ he said, with a whiff of regret. ‘You never really did. All those years ago, on the seaside holidays, you couldn’t quite grasp how it worked.’
‘I know. And this poor child is likely to be almost as deprived, unless we can manage a sibling.’
‘One step at a time,’ said Christopher, with a look of alarm. ‘Things are complicated enough as it is.’
‘There are lots of positives to being an only,’ she went on, hardly hearing him. ‘Life is wonderfully peaceful, for a start. And you get all that top-quality attention.’
‘We’re not going to be helicopter parents,’ he warned her. ‘This kid is going to climb trees and fall into freezing becks and get chased by angry rams. And I’m not paying for violin lessons. I hate violins.’
‘We’ll have the social services after us.’
‘No, we’ll have that Corinne woman cheering us on.’ He had only met Corinne once for a few minutes, but had recognised a kindred spirit within seconds. ‘We can go to her for moral support.’
Simmy had changed back into her summer jeans, with a pair of tights underneath. The tights only came up to her hips and were uncomfortable. ‘I hate clothes,’ she grumbled.
Christopher laughed, relentlessly mocking her sour temper, refusing to take it personally. ‘You need a big sheepskin cape to huddle into. With the woolly side in. Very Game of Thrones, that would be.’
She smiled, grateful for his forbearance, but still feeling jaded. ‘Maybe there’ll be one in the next auction.’
‘Sadly, I don’t think they exist, but there’s often a full-length mink coat going for ten quid. Come and bid for one of those instead.’
Banter was something Christopher did well. His ironic wit always cheered her, reminding her that he had lived a full and unconventional life thus far, and regarded rules as something to be taken lightly. The more she got to know him, the more similarities to her mother she discovered. She could see that her own tendency to conformity needed just such a balance. There was a permanent subtle challenge just below the surface of his words, urging her to take more risks, broaden her horizons. She hoped it wouldn’t eventually exhaust him and turn him bitter, if she failed to respond as he wanted.
‘I’m still feeling sorry about the house,’ she said. ‘Rejecting it so quickly
. You probably think we could have made enough alterations for it to be perfectly all right for us.’
‘I told you – I would have taken it if you’d liked it, but I can’t say I fell in love with it. I’d like a bit more character, and higher ceilings.’
‘Maybe we should try harder to make the building plot work. You could have your high ceilings, and I could have my big windows. But there must be pages of restrictions and requirements, to fit with the local vernacular. Real stone, for a start, which must cost a fortune.’
‘“Local vernacular”,’ he repeated. ‘Get you.’
‘No, get my dad. He loves words like that. He’d probably want to design the house for us, based on Brantwood or somewhere.’
‘He’d have to find the million quid to pay for it, then. Besides, it would never work in Hartsop. Brantwood would be nothing without the lake to reflect itself in.’
‘Ben would say we’ve missed the moment. Born in the wrong century. All those huge houses that middle-class entrepreneurs built for themselves. You could have made a vast empire out of the auctions, selling oil paintings and porcelain or something, and we’d end up living in somewhere like Storrs. With columns and porticoes and fabulous dormer windows in the attic.’
‘Storrs?’
‘Just south of Bowness. It’s a hotel now. And I’m not sure about the windows. I think the money to build it came from the slave trade.’
‘There’s always a catch, even in the nineteenth century. And the Victorians weren’t very keen on antiques. They wanted new stuff, imported from Japan and India.’
‘You could have done that, then. I’m sure it was all so much easier in those days.’
‘Hey – it’s nearly half past ten. We’re wasting the day, which I thought you were determined not to do.’